A Soldier's Weakness
by acorn221
Summary: Sherlock's return to Baker Street does not go as expected. Sherlock must learn to confront his emotions and the consequences of his actions. He also must realize that he is not always right.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes walked steadily down Baker Street. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and lifted up his collar against the common, brisk London breeze. His dark blue scarf was wrapped neatly around his long, slender neck. Just as usual.

Today, however, was no ordinary day. As Sherlock strode down the street to 221b, he contemplated. He wondered how John would react. Well, not really wondered, for he never really wondered about things. He knew how John would react. That's his specialty; knowing. And when it came to his one and only…companion, Sherlock knew it all. His flat-mate had his own folder inside the computer of Sherlock's mind, never to be deleted.

It had been three years; almost to the day, in fact. Sherlock remembered it like it was yesterday, and he was sure John could too, considering it was the day he lost his best friend and Sherlock lost his life. Well, sort of. For Sherlock, faking his death was fairly simple. Of course he would have preferred not to have had to, but his nemesis pulled the trigger, and Sherlock pulled a lie. Sherlock was expecting John's dismay, but certainly not his own. Standing on the rooftop, his cell phone in hand, he was forced to say the words that stuck in him like a knife. _Goodbye John_. He experienced something he never did before… Was it anger? Sorrow? Nervousness? Fear? No, it couldn't have been.

Sherlock approached the old, familiar flat. He knew Mrs. Hudson wasn't home. She had gone away for the weekend, which was for the better, for he didn't want to have to deal with her as well. He had enough on his hands with John and his fury that he knew would surface when he returned. John was predictable; just how Sherlock liked it.

He found it odd, and slightly depressing, that John had stayed in their flat even after he had "died." He remembers that day at the cemetery very clearly; hearing John tell Mrs. Hudson that he could not stay at Baker Street. It made his chest ache to think that John was unable to pull himself away. That he was unable to let go. It was all he could do to try to convince John that he was not the man that he thought he was, but it obviously had no effect.

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before stepping towards the door marked 221b. He reached out for the door handle and turned. The door didn't move. He shook the handle, but it was locked. That was odd. John rarely locked the door during the day. He would lock it at night and unlock it when he went out to take his usual morning stroll. So John didn't leave the flat this morning. Odd. Luckily the door was old and Sherlock didn't have much trouble breaking the lock with a strong kick, although it made quite a bit more noise than he would have liked. In any case, he was standing inside just a moment later.

Something was not right. The whole building was completely silent except for his low, steady breathing. John was not the type to stand still and wait to see what a loud, door-breaking noise had come from. No, he was a soldier. He would run down the stairs yelling, "What the hell was that?!" He would not fear whatever could have produced the violent crash. But the silence remained; almost ominous.

Sherlock slowly ascended the stairs to his flat, the stairs creaking seemingly loudly in the quiet, but still nothing stirred in the flat above. John hadn't gone. Sherlock had seen him just the day before out in the city, without John's knowing of course, and had seen him return to Baker Street in the late afternoon.

Sherlock waited on the landing at the top if the stairs for any sign if life. None came. He pushed open the door to his flat with a sickening squeak. The apartment looked as it had three years ago, just with a few alterations. Sherlock's messy books and work were no longer strewn across the room. All his lab equipment had vacated the kitchen, leaving the area quite unpleasantly empty in his opinion. However the smiley face of yellow graffiti paint remained on the wall, along with the bullet holes Sherlock had placed there when he was particularly bored. Sherlock still had not heard a single shuffle from anywhere in the flat. Strange.

John's cane lay against his soft arm chair.

His laptop sat closed on the coffee table.

Sherlock's heart rate increased slightly. He made his way upstairs…to John's bedroom. Certainly John wasn't sleeping, was he? No, it was mid-afternoon. John was an early riser. He always had been. Napping? Doubted.

Sherlock's mind began to race. By now his deductive reasoning would have been kicking in, but somehow other thoughts were overtaking his mind; painful thoughts that Sherlock tried to push away without success. He stood outside the closed door of John's bedroom, not even breathing, straining to hear beyond it. He heard nothing. With only a moment's hesitation he slowly turned the doorknob. He was expecting… well he didn't know what he was expecting. Sherlock wondered.

But whatever Sherlock was expecting it certainly wasn't the scene he saw before him. He inhaled a sharp breath and his knees gave out under him. He awkwardly fell to the floor; into a large pool of blood. In front of his flat-mate, who lay motionless on the floor.

Sherlock trembled. His hands shook violently then rested on his companion. He couldn't think. Why couldn't he think? Fear? Was that what he felt? He felt fear once; after being drugged by toxic fog in the hollow, but he certainly wasn't drugged now. He was never good with emotions, but his chest ached as he stared blankly at his seemingly dead friend with a gun in his hand.  
Sherlock's hand, still shaking flew to John's wrist. He waited. After a moment he felt a weak pulse. His heart leapt…. He was still alive. But just barely.

Sherlock reached for his phone in his coat pocket and fumbled with it quite a bit before he successfully dialed and held it up to his ear. A scruff voiced answered moments later.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade…"

Detective Inspector Lestrade answered his phone confused. The voice on the other line was familiar. He knew who it was, of course. Who wouldn't recognize that low baritone voice? But something was off. Very off. It was not steady and fluid as it usually is… or was. He was still quite confused. But the voice wavered and gasped. He spoke into the phone again.

"Sherlock? What the bloody hell? You're alive?"

"Yes, obviously" Sherlock replied.

"What?…how-"

"Stop it! Lestrade…it's John. He's… Please, just please come quickly. And bring an ambulance."

Lestrade hung up the phone still somewhat unsure of what just happened, but clearly he needed to get to Baker Street immediately.

Sherlock hovered over his flat-mate, tears quietly beginning to stream down his face. How could he have let this happen? He left John to protect him; to save him… He…he thought that was best. But now? Sherlock's hands were now soaked with blood from trying to keep the wound in John's side closed. His attempt did little and blood continued to flow. He wondered why John had shot himself in the abdomen in the first place. It would have been far quicker and less painful had he shot himself in the skull. Although maybe John didn't want it to be painless… perhaps he wanted it to be like it was in the war. He was shot and saved; doomed to live his life in loneliness time and time again. Only this time, he didn't want to be saved. Maybe he wanted to escape the loneliness that seemed to follow him. Maybe he wanted this to be his last battle and not to return alone; instead, to die as a soldier who had suffered through so many battles of body and mind. Sherlock's stomach churned. Lestrade and a pair of EMTs burst through the door. Sherlock fell to the side to let them collect John. He remained on the floor, shivering and tears continuing to roll down his cheeks. Lestrade realized now was not the best time to ask the consulting detective all the questions that swarmed around in his head. He walked over to the clearly shocked man on the floor, now staring at the puddle in front of him, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I… He…" Sherlock began to speak, but nothing came out. He thought he had predicted how it would go. He thought everything would eventually be alright. He thought he would be home. He thought he knew. But for the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't know.

And he was afraid.

Sherlock rode thoughtlessly to the hospital. He was expecting many startled and confused looks because for many people, he had died three years prior. However, entering the hospital was fairly smooth. Lestrade had probably told everyone before he arrived to save him the trouble. Sherlock liked Lestrade. Or at least tolerated him, and the same was for the latter.

A while passed until Sherlock was able to see John. Fortunately, see him alive. It pained Sherlock to see him so pale, so weak; so lifeless. He waited next to his bedside for hours. Perhaps it would be better for him not to return. Perhaps it would save John additional harm. He wouldn't want to hurt him again. But Sherlock was unable to pull himself away. Based on recent events, John clearly did need him… And something inside him wouldn't let him leave, even if he should.

Sherlock stared at his flat-mate. He stared at his face, his arms, and his chest, which was moving, ever so slightly up and down. Sometimes he would stop breathing himself, just to make sure he was not imagining the slow rhythm. And his heart would skip a beat if it looked like John had skipped a breath. Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his; holding it tenderly, and making sure to avoid the tubes and IVs that protruded from it. He had only held John's hand once before; cuffed to him, heart racing, on one of the adventures he always loved. This was not the same hand. It was cold. Vapid. Worn by the sad years they spent apart. He found himself unable to contain his tears and they rolled down his face again. How odd. Sherlock whispered. He knew not whether to himself or to the unconscious man in front of him.

"Oh god….please. Just please… John. Stop it. Stop this. I need to know you're safe. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just please don't leave me. I was so alone. I… I need you. You're the most human, and kind human being I've ever known. You're my friend, John. My home."

Sherlock wept quietly to himself, and John's hand lightly squeezed his.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't easy finding the words to say when John finally opened his eyes. All Sherlock could do was stare into them and struggle to deduce what was going on in his friend's mind. It was very difficult. Everything Sherlock had saved, all the information he had kept readily available on John seemed to have become either lost or irrelevant and it only hurt to look into the sad eyes of the broken man he once knew.

John didn't even bring his eyes to meet Sherlock's face. Instead, he rested them on his hand interlocked in Sherlock's, who was gripping him slightly more tightly than before. Neither of them spoke for what seemed like quite a while and it appeared to Sherlock that John had no intention to. Sherlock didn't even realize how tight his grip on John's hand was getting until he noticed John's brow furrow and the look of pain come to his face. He quickly released John's hand and mouthed a "sorry" before resting his hands in his lap. The tears that he shed had now dried and he kept his expression rigid and unemotional. He tried to conceal his sorrow and prevented his gaze from making its way to John's face. Unfortunately, when he first spoke, breaking the long silence, it wavered and cracked. It took several seconds of clearing his throat to return it to its usual fluidity.

"John, I—"

"Don't, Sherlock. Just don't," John interjected. His voice sounded tired and weak.

"John, I just want to explain myself. I want you to understand—"

"I don't want to hear it. There is nothing to explain. You were gone, and now you have come back to haunt me. You left me."

The words John spoke struck him like an arrow to the heart, mostly because they were true. He had managed to maintain his placidity, but John was becoming more and more riled. He did his best to stay calm in order to keep John from hurting himself and to keep from revealing anything that was going through his mind. It reminded him of his experiment that he did on John in Baskerville involving some sugar and an audio tape of dogs growling. He hated to keep things from John, especially when they hurt him. He tried to calm John in the laboratory by saying that it was okay, that there was nothing wrong and by showing him that he was calm, but John was right. It was not okay, not for him to trick John, not for him to frighten John, and above all, not for him to lie to him. But as his calmness didn't help to tranquilize John then, it didn't help now.

He knew that John had heard him when he expressed his sorrow and apologies just minutes earlier, or at least some of it, but still refused to portray any emotion. A security measure of sorts.

"I want you to know that I had no choice but to leave you, John. I had not anticipated how effected you would be by my departure. I realize I am to blame for your current state, but I can explain my reasons and hope that you will accept them."

"I don't blame you, Sherlock! But I don't want to hear your explanations! I don't want to hear your excuses! You could have chosen a different way to go. You had choices, Sherlock, and you chose the ones that hurt others. I thought you were dead! I tried for so long to believe that you were still alive and that you hadn't lied to me, but after three years, it became too much and it hurt, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat stunned and silent in his chair, still avoiding John's gaze. He must have loosened his rigid, expressionless mask and showed the guilt he felt because John's voice softened a moment later.

"I just… It just became difficult. I don't expect you to understand what I felt, but it would be nice if you…"

Sherlock knew what John was asking. He wanted him to apologize and to show any sort of feeling at all, but what Sherlock so easily said before, when John was still semi-unconscious, he couldn't bring himself to say now.

"I…"

"Just forget it. I knew you wouldn't," John sighed. They sat in silence for a few moments until Sherlock spoke quietly.

"Just so you know, I wish I hadn't had to leave you. It wasn't easy for me either." Sherlock finally looked at John. John looked away and nodded curtly, his jaw tight.

"Will you allow me to return to the flat?" he asked. John looked at him briefly again and then responded.

"Well, it is one-half your flat. Now if you don't mind, I would like to sleep. I am still in a lot a pain."

Sherlock nodded and slowly rose out of his chair. He walked to the door of John's room and looked at his flat-mate for a moment before closing the door quietly behind him. For the second time that day it felt as though his center of gravity had shifted, or more like been ripped violently from him. It hurt Sherlock that he had not resolved anything between him and John. He knew that it would take much work for John to accept and trust him again, but he knew not how. What hurt most of all was that he knew they would never be able to recover what they once had; that it will never be the same.


	3. Chapter 3

John was able to return to Baker Street from the hospital about a week later. Sherlock had already moved back into the flat and dealt with Mrs. Hudson. It gave her quite a fright when Sherlock first encountered her, but after a moment she was overjoyed, crying and hugging him for what seemed like an hour. Sherlock practically had to pry Mrs. Hudson off of him in order to escape.

Sherlock did his best to move back into 221b without making too much of a mess of the flat. He knew how much John never liked all of his books and papers all over the living room and kitchen and tried to consolidate them. It had little effect though and his equipment and possessions still overtook the rooms and were littered across his home. Although, it wasn't his home. Not really. His home wasn't determined by walls and furniture. His home was determined by the people, or the man, that lived inside the walls and used the furniture. And as of now, Sherlock was homeless.

When John was given his notice that he could leave, Sherlock immediately volunteered to bring him back to 221b. John protested, saying he didn't need any help getting back, but he didn't put up too much of a fight and they rode quietly together in the cab. Sherlock would open every door for John, but John would never utter so much as a "thank you". He never even really looked at Sherlock and the silence and avoidance pained the latter.

As they stepped through the door of the flat, John let out a sigh and looked around the cluttered space. Clearly Sherlock's attempt to neaten his belongings had not been sufficient. Sherlock waited for his flat-mate to say or do anything. Although he had been recovering for a week now, John's eyes were still filled with tiredness, sorrow, and pain. Sherlock became anxious, hoping that John was not too upset with the messy area. Strange. Him being anxious? Almost unheard of. Generally, Sherlock wouldn't care in the slightest whether or not his possessions aggravated or inconvenienced John. Well, not since they moved in together; the first time. When they first moved in to Baker Street, Sherlock _did_ try to make John comfortable in the flat that was already full of his things. He remembered stabbing some of his loose papers onto the fireplace mantle with the pocket knife he had gotten what seemed like a lifetime ago. The knife hole still remains in the wood.

As Sherlock was eager for John's approval then, he was eager for it now. In a way, his return was like a new start; he had to start from scratch. It would take as much work to reacquaint with John now as it did the first time they met, when they were strangers with separate histories; although, somehow it may even be more difficult than starting from scratch. Because they _did_ share history.

Sherlock eventually became tired of waiting for a response to come for his flat-mate and said the only thing that came to mind.

"Tea?"

John turned around to look at Sherlock momentarily. After a second of thought, he nodded.

"That would be nice, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded in reply.

"A couple of biscuits maybe, too. If you haven't already replaced them with severed limbs," John added a moment later.

"I'm not your housekeeper!" Sherlock exclaimed, imitating Mrs. Hudson and grinning, but John didn't crack a smile. Sherlock retreated to the kitchen to put on the kettle and heard the thump of John sitting down in his chair. A few minutes later, he returned to the living room with the freshly boiled tea and the biscuits John had asked for. He poured John his tea and sat in the chair opposite him.

"How often was it that we have to change your bandages?" Sherlock inquired.

"They have to be changed once a day, but _I_ will handle it."

"John, you can't possibly do it yourself."

"I can and I will, alright?"

Sherlock didn't think it safe to get John too aggravated so he let the matter drop. However, when the time came for John to tend to his wound, he stood in the bathroom struggling to unwrap the gauze around is midsection and re-apply fresh bandages. After minutes of hearing John sigh and occasionally wince in pain, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and stopped him and forced him to allow his help. He knelt in front of John on the cool, tile floor with John's stitched up wound at eye level. He carefully wrapped the clean gauze over John's side, making sure to avoid causing him too much pain. The last thing he wanted was to cause John any more pain than he already had.

Once he was finished, they returned to the living room. John uttered a quiet "thank you" and Sherlock responded saying that it was the least he could do. For several days, they proceeded with this. Sherlock didn't take any cases or work so that he could care for John, but they hardly spoke and there was a lack of warmth that Sherlock remembered used to radiate from their flat.

For John's sake, Sherlock remained silent, maintaining composure and trying not to instigate a heavy conversation; hoping John would do so on his own. However, Sherlock became tired of waiting. He hardly slept, or at least slept even less than usual, and decided to attempt to mend John's broken trust.

"I know you've got questions, John. I know you want an explanation for my actions three years ago," Sherlock started, as they sat across from each other in their usual seats.

"No, Sherlock. I don't."

Sherlock squinted at his flat-mate, trying to use his powers of deduction to see what was swarming around in his head, but he drew a blank.

"Of course you do," Sherlock replied. He realized after the fact that he was probably being rude or something. He could never tell. John raised his voice.

"No, I don't! We've been over this! I don't want one of your arrogant explanations! I want you realize it's not all about you!"

"You simply don't understand the circumstances, John. If I could just clarify—,"

"I don't need to understand, Sherlock! _You_ need to understand. For once, maybe you're wrong!"

Sherlock had stayed fairly calm throughout the scene, but John was becoming fired up. He now stood on his feet and was waving his arms in anger. Sherlock stood up as well.

"This isn't an opportunity to show off, Sherlock! This isn't a case, and this isn't the part where you explain how the criminal did it! This isn't one of your magical resolutions and it never will be! It's _not_ the same!"

Sherlock stepped back an inch. He had never heard John exclaim anything like that before, and he wished he hadn't. His heart and his hopes seemed to shrivel. He was about to turn away when he noticed something. His stone mask and his iron voice slipped away in an instant.

"John," Sherlock said quietly. The room began to spin and rock as he stumbled towards his flat-mate. A small blot of blood had begun to show and was growing on the side of John's shirt. John looked to see and sighed, clenching his fists. Sherlock softly placed his hands on John's shoulder and arm, guiding him into his chair. He knelt in front of it and looked at John with gentle eyes. John was breathing heavily still. Sherlock didn't know if it was from the excitement before or the pain now. He lightly lifted John's shirt to look at the damage.

"You must have torn your stitches," he said hoarsely. John didn't reply; he only gripped tightly at the arms of his chair. The gauze that he had wrapped around John was now completely soaked with blood on one side. The sight of his friend covered in blood brought the nightmare of the event that occurred 12 days ago flooding back, and he couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He was getting really tired of this fear thing. He did his best to repair John's stitches and rewrap the gauze without making him move too much, but he wasn't the doctor. When he was finished he remained knelt in front of him. He sighed.

"You can't scare me like that," he whispered. John bowed his head. They sat in silence for a few moments.

"Now please just listen to what I have to say."

"Enough." John sighed. "I'm _sick_ of your excuses! Why don't you just—."

"Alright!" Sherlock yelled, jumping up. "Alright! You are right! I shouldn't have left you. I was wrong! What I did was not okay, but I had no choice! What I did, I did to protect you, John. I did it to save you," he eyed the drying spot of blood on John's shirt. "Or I thought I was saving you, but I was wrong! And I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

Tears were forming in Sherlock's eyes and he was somewhat pacing around the room. He turned away from his acquaintance sitting in front of him so he wouldn't be able to see his face. His voice was cracking and he clenched his jaw to keep the tears from streaming down. He never imagined anything like that would have come out of his mouth. Talking about _feelings_ wasn't his specialty, but he couldn't keep them hidden forever and he was desperate; this was the center of his universe; this was John. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

"All I do… All I've done, I've done for you."

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, his back turned towards John. He wiped his hand across his face and ran it through his curly hair, still struggling to keep in his tears. He blinked rapidly. He stood quiet for what seemed like a while when he felt a hand pulling on his shoulder. Before he knew what was happening, he was swung around and yanked into a deep embrace. John wrapped his strong arms around him and rested his chin on his shoulder. Sherlock hesitantly rested his arms on his friend, but then tightly hugged him back. He could no longer keep from crying and silent tears flowed down his cheeks. John began to cry as well and whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"I've missed you so much."

They stood wrapped in each other's arms and Sherlock knew.

At last, he was home.

* * *

**Hey! So that's it. ****I tried not to mess it up and keep the characters close to the actual ones. ****I hope you enjoyed it. **


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